


XCIX: Rebooted

by George James Valtom (GeorgeJamesValtom)



Category: Bolt (2008)
Genre: Armageddon, Blood and Violence, Doomsday, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorgeJamesValtom/pseuds/George%20James%20Valtom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scourge is spreading across central California: hideous canine mutants that wield terrible power, intent on murdering every human they encounter. As the nation watches in horror, an intrepid reporter, an ex-mercenary, and a certain white dog find that their stories intertwine. Will they uncover the truth before the world burns? A reboot of 8MilesThatWay's story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crisis

_I want to thank 8MilesThatWay from FanFiction.net for originally creating this concept, and for giving me his blessing to remake and republish it._

* * *

"Got everything?" Aniqua asked. She lifted two more bottles of gasoline into the back of the news van, tucking them underneath a pile of cables. "Cameras?"

"Got 'em in the front space," Gary called out.

"Howard, laptop?"

"Got it. And the charger." He answered her next question before she could even verbalize it.

"Okay, let's see, microphones, batteries..." Aniqua went through the equipment in the back.

"And guns," Gary added. "Got us each a handgun, plus a rifle in case we need it."

"Weapons," Aniqua acknowledged. "Extra gas for the generator…I think we're good."

With that she slammed the rear shut, came around, and climbed in through the side door. Howard was already at the wheel, so Aniqua sat in the passenger seat and Gary took his place at the console behind them.

"Alright," Howard turned over the engine. "Let's try to head west."

It took them five minutes just to edge into the street, with the roadways of Phoenix congested with refugees. It was another twenty minutes to travel two blocks over to the I-10, but they finally turned onto the ramp and managed to speed up. With the morning sun at their backs, Aniqua stared out the windows as they began to drive smoothly. They were the only vehicle going west; meanwhile, the opposite six lanes of the freeway had ground to a standstill.

"Wow…" Aniqua whispered. "Gary, get some shots of that."

Gary snapped open a large plastic case, pulled out their camera, and fit it onto his shoulder. He awkwardly tried to negotiate the tight space as he crouched and approached the windshield.

"Careful!" Howard dodged its lens as it swung towards his face. "Trying to watch the road!"

"Sorry! Sorry…"

Aniqua stood and moved into the back, letting Gary sit in the passenger seat and point the camera out the driver's window, capturing the endless line of vehicles streaming into Phoenix from California. Some had abandoned their vehicles altogether: lone men were carrying four bags at a time, families trailed chains of children, and shady individuals were carrying crowbars as they slunk behind an empty car or truck. Aniqua managed to lean forward and watch them as they all fled the horrors that were spreading from central California.

"Oh damn," Howard mumbled, gesturing ahead. They were approaching a large armored vehicle, which had five soldiers around it. One of the men held up his hand. They slowed to a stop, and he came to the window.

"'S blocked off," he waved his hand to the west. "No civilians."

"Yeah but, look, we're from the news station." Howard jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, to indicate the lettering on their van.

"No civilians." He motioned in a circle. "Turn around. Now."

Aniqua made her way to the window, stooped over. "Sir, please, it's a very important story that deserves to be covered. Here, we have a press pass." She began to pull the card out of her wallet.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but no journalists right now. We need to keep the way clear for personnel transport."

"But we have a press pass! Look, see?"

"I don't care, it won't get you through here!"

"Corporal?" Another soldier came towards them and waved the first man away. "Miss, what are you trying to do?"

"We're covering this event. We have no other teams in the area."

"Listen," he leaned into the window. "What you're driving into isn't a warzone, or a terror situation. It's something far worse. International laws aren't going to apply."

"I understand."

He looked at her closely. "I don't think you do. You go into that zone, or if that zone catches up to you, we aren't going to save you. Do you understand that?"

Aniqua hesitated before answering, "Yes."

"Let her through, Corporal." Aniqua watched as they were waved past the vehicle. Just before the window rolled up again, they heard another soldier shouting through a megaphone:

"Please do NOT abandon your vehicles! We're trying to move traffic as quickly as possible, and abandoned cars get in the way. Stay in your vehicles, and we will get you through in time! All abandoned vehicles will be pulled off the side of the road!"

"Two days," Gary muttered to himself. "Two and a half days, and the state of California is nearly empty. It's amazing."

Howard had his jaw set firm as he kept staring at the road, ignoring Gary. "So even the National Guard isn't putting a dent in the situation, huh?"

"Hm?"

"Don't be thick Gary! That guy just said they 'won't' save us. That translates into they 'can't' save us."

"Geez dude, just relax…"

As the two went at it, Aniqua sat in the back of the van, running a check over the console again. The hydraulic switch to raise the satellite antenna seemed in good order. She slipped a pair of headphones over her ears, switched on a voice-over microphone and blew into it. "Okay," she whispered to herself; it was working fine. Before removing the headphones, though, she switched the channel to reception, catching the middle of a talk program.

The running headline screamed "DOG CRISIS IN CALIFORNIA" alongside flashing sirens.

"-derstand the scope of the situation," one of the pundits said. "What we're dealing with is a catastrophe unlike any we've occurred in our nation's history, in any nation's! We need this drastic-"

"No no no, no no," another pundit interrupted him. "This is a time, more than ever, to stick to our principles! State troops should be leading the refugee crisis, and the states and local authorities should be providing for them. The national government should send in the Marines, Air Force, Army to settle the hostilities, but FEMA and other government bureaucracy will only get in the way and cost us valuable time! I won't have a bigger government to deal with after this-"

"-being ridiculous," a woman interrupted him in turn. "Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona are already being swamped, and more people are pouring in every day. Gas riots, violent confrontations, reports of town militias shooting anyone who tries to pull off the freeway - the federal government has an obligation to step in to help-"

The pundits kept battling out their politics, and Aniqua switched the channel. She leaned closer to the little screen, only four inches across.

"-new footage uploaded by a resident of San Luis Obispo, shared on Facebook, that shows these dogs in action again." It was a male news anchor, nodding gravely, with a female by his side. "I've been told the footage is sensitive, so please look away if you don't wish to see."

Aniqua kept watching. The shaky video had obviously been shot from a smartphone, up on a second floor balcony, just barely peeking around a corner of a wall. In the street below, chaos reigned. Trash cans and litter and stopped cars were everywhere. And dogs, dogs running through the streets. A group of five had paused and surrounded a red minivan, ramming their heads against the doors and leaving dents. As Aniqua watched, one of the dogs slipped his head under the car, and began to tilt it up off the ground, showing unnatural strength. Two others joined him, and within seconds the vehicle was on its side. Then the first dog jumped onto the window, gave a small bounce with its front legs, shattered the glass, and began to drag out a man in a pink polo shirt and khaki pants. The man was squirming, yelling. The dog bit down at his throat-

"Cut it off! Cut it off!"

It was the female anchor shouting. The screen returned to the two of them. The male anchor had his head bowed, his hand at his mouth.

"Roger? Roger…"

"...I'm sorry," he choked out. He moved his trembling hand to his forehead.

"Cut to commercial," the female anchor said. "Cut to commercial, cut! Cut to-"

A Burger King jingle sounded, introducing a brilliant new dish that surely no one had ever dreamed of before. Aniqua had to take a moment, gather her own breath back again. She became vaguely aware of her own hand, clapped over her mouth.

"...my God."

Sure she had heard the reports, many of them far more gruesome than what she had just seen. But the video just made it...too real. The way that man had been kicking, the look on his face…

"Aniqua?" Gary was staring back at her. "You alright?"

She took a deep breath, put on the mask that she wore to every horror story, assumed the voice. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You hungry?"

"Gary, it is eight in the morning, and you had donuts before we left the studio."

"Yeah, but driving into a horde of scary zombie dogs gets a guy hungry." He grinned. "Whadda we got?"

"We got enough," Howard snapped at him, "for us to survive for a week. So please, try to be sparing."

"Sounds like someone else needs breakfast too. Howard?"

There was a silence. Aniqua could see Howard wavering.

"...any danishes, by chance?"

"Cheese or cherry?"

"Oh, cheese." He accepted it gratefully, steering with his elbows as he tore the wrapper open. "Thanks."

"No prob! Aniqua?"

The image of the man being dragged out of the car struck her again.

"Uh, nothing right now. Maybe an apple later?"

"Suit yourself." Gary began to dig into a pre-wrapped ham and cheese sandwich. "Oh! Do you wanna get some footage, to get us starting out?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "That'd be a good idea, I think. Let me get ready though."

"Mm," he held up his sandwich to show, "I'm busy, do what you gotta do."

"Well thank you," she managed a weak chuckle. She pulled her stage make-up from her purse and opened her palette. Looking in a small mirror set into the van's wall, Aniqua applied her dark brown base, outlined her lips in red, and added just a little accent on her eyelashes. She had had so much experience reporting in the field that even with the occasional bump from the van, her makeup turned out flawless. "Ready?"

"Mmm!" Gary shoved the last little corner of his sandwich into his mouth, and picked up the camera. "Lighting...focus...microphone," he handed her a stick microphone. "And…" there was a beep. "Go!"

"Hello! Aniqua Thompson, reporting in from Phoenix, Arizona. My crew and I are on our way into the heart of California to bring you the most up-to-date facts about this crisis as it unfolds. For those of you worried out there, we are armed and ready to face any threats." Although, after the soldier's warning, she couldn't bring herself to believe they were protected at all. But she continued. "We'll be reporting in as much as possible, whenever we have fresh and exciting new information to share with you. Aniqua Thompson with PBS."


	2. Fresno

_Bolt, no Bolt, don't!_

_We got one over here, we got an infected-_

_BOLT NO-_

Bolt opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight. Then he closed them again, as the heavy weight of memory settled on him.

Around him, the shredded husk of Fresno lay nearly empty.

A fly began to buzz against his ear, making it twitch. Bolt tried to roll over to get it away. Yet still, it insisted on zapping against him, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. Finally he lifted his head, looked around at it, and fired a pair of lasers from his eyes. The insect's body fell to the floor, roasted and smoking.

Well, he wasn't going back to sleep anymore, not after that exertion. With a grumble he pulled himself to his paws, looking around again at his temporary shelter.

It had been a diner, the kind that tried to recapture nostalgia for some distant decade. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photographs, burn marks, unlit neon signs, a crack in the plaster where a body had been thrown against the wall. A copy of  _Nighthawks_ hung above the tables, and beside it were black-and-white photographs of curly haired waitresses smiling as they offered milkshakes and burgers on platters. A serving bar sat empty before a menu offering sandwiches, soups, salads, and twenty ice cream flavors. The menu was framed on either side by mirrors, both shattered. Bolt stepped over their broken glass now, maneuvered around the body that lay sprawled across the floor, and made his way to the kitchen.

A pack of dogs had already cleaned out the main kitchen. However, caught up in ecstasy and bloodlust and madness they had failed to open the pantry and refrigerator, which Bolt had bothered to check. A hearty supply of fresh beef rewarded his diligence. At the very least it filled his belly, distracting him from the headache that rocked his skull. His head had been smarting for the past three, four days, and the stress wasn't helping.

Finishing his meal, Bolt peered into the steel door of the refrigerator. His reflection was blurry, but he still tried to see himself. Was his coat still full? Were his teeth and gums still healthy? Were his eyes clean? He finally concluded that he was still well enough, and began to head out of the diner and into the streets.

Columns of smoke marred the sky, some distant and some near. Lowering his eyes to the streets, Bolt found overturned cars with twisted metal; storefronts with shattered facades; and dragged to the side of the road, bodies of every age, too slow to escape…

Bolt felt a shiver of disgust roll down his spine. And yet, a slight buzz of excitement - which accented his disgust even further. With a growl he shook his head and began walking on, consciously trying not to look at the dead. Besides, they weren't the ones he needed to watch for…

The scene lay quiet, with only a few noises to provide soundtrack. A burning fire here and there provided a crackle, and the blowing wind sang its ghostly tune through the streets. Sometimes a staccato note, like a bark or a gunshot or a shriek, echoing.

Bolt didn't know where to go or what to do. Part of him wondered if it even mattered anymore. But another part kept nagging: get back to Penny.

But after what had happened...he felt his stomach flip at the memory, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Would she even love him anymore, now that she'd seen what he had been turned into? Why should he bother trying to reunite with her if he would simply be rejected, or put her in danger, or both?

Thus the debate cycled. His heart demanded he chase after his person, and his mind did everything in its power to negate that mandate. The battle drove him to despair, and occasionally to anger. He couldn't be with Penny, she hated him, the world hated him, everyone hated him.

And it was  _their_ fault.

In a sudden rage he rammed his head into a sedan's overturned roof, leaving a large dent in its red surface. It rolled back onto its wheels, tilted to the opposite side, and settled upon its tires with a crash. Bolt still felt incensed though.

If  _they_ hadn't come along…

If  _they_ hadn't taken him…

If  _they_ had left him well enough alone…he would be with Penny right now.

Scowling, he turned a street corner, revealing more cars and bodies. A three-vehicle wreck blazed two hundred feet down - and a small group of humans dashed across the street.

Bolt scrambled behind a van and peered around its edge. There were five people. Two he recognized as police officers from their uniforms. One was a man wearing a wide brimmed hat, who held a rifle in one hand as he darted across the road. There were also two women, one carrying a pistol and the other wielding a golf club. All five of them nervously watched their surroundings as they crossed one by one, except the women who went together.

"Clear?" One of the officers asked his partner.

"Clear," she replied. They began to lead into an alleyway, both of their handguns drawn. Bolt watched as the others followed them. Once they had all turned the corner, he trotted after them, as fast as he could go while still remaining silent.

"My God…" The man with the rifle was visibly shaking, "Oh my-" He bent over, making dry heaving noises.

"Shh!" One of the women hissed as she tried to stand him up straight again. "What's the deal, not like that's the first body you've seen lying around here!"

"He…" The man gestured weakly to something that Bolt could not see. "He used to trim my lawn during the summer...every week, he'd come by. Oh my God…"

He bent over again, using the rifle as a crutch. Bolt retreated back behind the alley's entrance, content to just listen.

"Okay," the female officer spoke, "Vons is just around the corner. Do we want to risk going there for food though? Down this way is a residential area, we could barricade ourselves into a house there, it'd be more secure-"

"But how many dogs?" One of the civilian women replied. "A lot of them could be infected and just haven't started running loose yet. When they do…"

"We won't be any more secure in a supermarket," the male officer said. "There might be fewer K-9s, but with such an open space we'd be sitting ducks."

"Well we can't stay here," the man with the rifle replied. "We need water, my jug's empty."

The other woman answered him back. "You just drank the last of it, you'll be fine for a bit."

"Hey, we need water, or we're gonna die here!"

"I know that, but we can go an hour without it if it's safer."

Bolt kept listening to them plan and argue, not knowing what to do. If he showed his face, he'd be shot. Of course the bullets would barely injure him, but it was the psychology of the thing. He didn't dare reveal his presence.

At the same time, just being there...he felt he was part of a group. Part of something resembling a family, even if it was in reality a patchwork group of survivors that hardly knew each other. No, don't think about it. Just listen to them talk, right around the corner. He might have been right beside them…

Then there was a yell from the man. "There!"

There was a loud echoing blast as he fired, and a chorus of snarls came from the other side. Bolt froze, unable to move as he heard barking, screams, bullets spewing from weapons. He couldn't take them on, he knew he couldn't, so he pressed against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut, dropping his head on the ground and trying to clamp his paws over his ears.

The chaos began to subside, and he dared to open his eyes. There was scuffling, sounds that churned Bolt's stomach. Then two dogs ran out past him - except they could hardly be called dogs anymore.

Bolt stared at their teeth, all bared and sick. Patches had worn out in their coats, exposing bald skin, and they moved in quick jerky motions. With a snarl one of them snapped at Bolt. He retreated a few steps, looking right into its raging eyes. The infected animal scampered off again with its partner, and four others followed from the alley. Some sported wounds, but they were already healing over.

Days ago they had been dogs, man's best friend. Now they had fallen victim to K-9, the terrible virus that twisted their bodies and minds. Bolt had seen its effects too well, when he had been captured and - no, no don't let those memories come back.

He watched them leave, breathing hard from fear. Then he consciously closed his mouth, gulped, and rounded the corner. The five people lay there, the rifle bitten in half and the handguns melted - they never had a chance.

Bolt had not been up fifteen minutes, and he already felt exhausted. He turned, and began to trudge north along the streets.


	3. The Prisoner

The hard padding on his back. Dim light streaming through the slit in the wall. Four grey walls and a steel door.  A crude metal toilet, a sink in the corner.

Ken had known little else for fifteen years.

Now he stared up at the ceiling. His stubble grew bit by bit, if he concentrated he thought he could almost feel it, poking at his skin and setting his neck on fire.  With a slow hand he scratched the fire away. Yet only seconds later the itch returned. He ordered himself to stop thinking about it, and sat up.

He had a small monolithic stand, welded to the floor. On it were a few rags of cloth and a black felt-tip marker. Ken took them both and wrote out a note: NEED SHAVE. PERMISSION FOR RAZORS? He shoved the cloth under the door and returned to his bed.

Also sitting on his stand were some old frayed books. Ken picked up a certain volume by Mary Shelley and began re-reading it. He found that the story really resonated with him, albeit in a bitter way.

He sat there, alone for so long. A lesser man might have cracked, driven to madness and begging for mercy. Ken did not. He found his secret, maintaining an internal locus of control. All this time he knew exactly where he was, who he was, when he was. He had counted the days, and could recite the date despite not having seen a calendar for years.  There were ways to burn the time, slow his breath, speed up his mind, make hours speed like minutes. One time he had gone into meditation so long, a group of doctors burst into his cell to ensure he was still breathing.

Sunlight died outside, and his cell darkened. Only the corridor’s light sneaking under the door offered any relief. Another day fading away, gone forever. Ken lay down. He had just closed his eyes when the door clicked and opened.

With a sigh he opened his eyes again, looking over at the silhouette standing before him. “Who wants to talk to me now?”

* * *

 

One hallway and then another. Ken watched the cells go by, a guard on either side of him and two following behind.  His hands were cuffed twice over.

“This way,” he was directed down another long corridor, now out of the cell block.

The sound of boots clicking on the tiles echoed against the walls and ceiling. A door opened, and Ken was marched through into an interrogation room. The usual agent in a sharp suit and tie sat across the table. He had the same briefcase, same pad and paper, same grim expression as all the others.

“Alright, let’s make this quick.” Ken sat down. “What do you want?”

“Kenneth, previously known as-”

“Ken,” he corrected. “Just Ken. No other names matter anymore.”

“Very well. Ken, I am here on behalf of the Department of Homeland Security.  If you are willing to cooperate with us-”

“-it will benefit the nation, help save lives, do your duty to your country,” he’d heard it all before. “Of course, it’s all about _if_ I’m willing to cooperate.”

“Mr. Kenneth, I insist that you hear me out.”

“Alright, fine. Go ahead.”

“I know that over the years, you’ve been bombarded with people wanting to know more about your enhancements, the experiments you took part in. Trying to collect data about the long-term effects.”

Ken nodded, gesturing for the man to continue.

“What I’m asking for, Mr. Kenneth, is something different. We need your help, a very urgent situation has come up.”

He chuckled. “Of course, isn’t that just it?  Just a toy to be thrown around, put away when you’re done playing, brought out when you’re bored? The moment the Soviets are gone, you lock me up, and now you’re on your hands and knees begging for my help. Why should I?”

“Because of what I’m offering you.”

He snapped open his briefcase, pulled out a manila folder, and handed it across the table. Ken opened it and found a birth certificate with the name “John Smith” written across it. A license with the same name, but his face.

“Mr. Kenneth, if you agree to help us, I can offer a guarantee in writing that afterwards, you would be released. John Smith would become your new identity, all records corrected, even down to high school transcripts. Any family you want to connect with, we can do the same for them. You will be a free man.”

Ken glared up at him, searching for any hint of falsehood. Experience had taught him to be stingy with trust. “Explain what you want.”

The man pulled out more files from his briefcase. “There has been an accident in a laboratory, just a few miles northwest of San Jose, California. A number of specimens of a project known as K-9 escaped, they had been genetically modified to become supersoldiers.”

“Ah, I see,” Ken nodded. “People get too smart, talk back, and you have to frame them and ship them off to maximum security prisons. Dogs don’t mind if you kennel them.”

The man sighed. “Yes, well, these dogs seem to mind very much. It’s unclear how they initially escaped, but they’ve been causing havoc throughout California.”

“And you need me to clean up your mess. Alright, fine, I’ll take it on. How many escaped?”

“Well, there lies our first big problem. It’s not just the escaped subjects that we need to worry about. They were treated with a viral agent, and now that they’ve escaped the K-9 virus is spreading to any other dogs they come into contact with. Forty percent of California households own dogs, and at least a hundred thousand canines live within San Francisco alone.”

“...that’s a lot of dogs.”

“Just in the first sixty hours, the entire area around San Francisco has been overrun, along with Sacramento and Fresno, and the dogs are starting to cross into Nevada. But that’s not all.”

“There’s more?” Kenneth leaned forward.

“On top of the K-9 virus, two other projects took place. The K-9 virus meant to give its subjects enhancements, like increased strength and speed, a hard exoskeleton that can withstand bullet impacts, and new bioluminescent glands that can project concentrated light out of their eyes. The Major project took things a step further. These Majors are not contagious, but are still very dangerous. They each were tested with a unique ability.”

Ken was handed a series of documents, each of which had a photograph attached of a dog. “‘Subject callsign: Vamp…’” he read aloud. “‘Designed to make use of organic material found in the field, can drain and digest the blood from organisms.’ Lovely.”

“There are a total of eight Majors. Your top priority will be neutralizing them, their potential for destruction is far greater than the K-9s.”

He shuffled through the files. “Callsign: Frankenstein. Experimental integration of mechanical parts, evolved into the full replacement of all tissue. Hardly even a cyborg anymore, a robot powered by half a brain hooked into a computer.” Another file. “Liquidus. Capable of exciting his molecules to the point where they assume liquid-like properties. Seven models melted before they got it to reassemble again.” Another file, and he chuckled. “Oh, they didn’t. ‘Callsign: Cerberus. Two canine heads were grafted onto a body, creating a three-headed creature that could still coordinate its actions.’ I’d ask why, if I didn’t know the answer already.”

There were also Fortune, which could regenerate and heal wounds even more quickly than the K-9s; Beauty Beast, a small lap dog that could excite itself into a monstrous form; Venom, which had saliva and blood that could kill ten bulls with a single drop; and Rock Solid, encased in a segmented exoskeleton that not even armor-piercing rounds could penetrate.

“Take down the Majors, got it. And, you said there was one other project?”

“An extension of the K-9 project, known as K-99.”

“How creative.”

“Mr. Kenneth,” the man was annoyed, “current casualties already exceed one million, can I _please_ get you to take this seriously?” He sighed. “K-99, a total reconstruction of _Canis familiaris._ All the capabilities of K-9, coupled with a more able mind and body. Every cell is integrated with nanotechnology, creating an organism more efficient than any other in existence.  In essence, all other life is obsolete.”

“Let me guess, they also escaped. How many do you need me to bring in?”

“Only one, it was a new project. Luckily K-99 is not contagious either, like the Majors, but we also know less about it. The subject was only in the lab for a few days before the accident occurred, but from what _was_ observed, we have every reason to be concerned.”

Ken received the file on K-99, much thinner than the others. On top was paperclipped a photograph of a white shepherd dog, glaring at the camera and snarling.

“It laid a low profile immediately after the attack, but was encountered at a checkpoint just north of Bakersfield. It’s still on the run, and we believe it retreated back towards San Francisco”

“Alright, also on my list.” Ken sat back in his chair. “Now, one more time, to make sure I got this: Kill K-99, kill the Majors, and kill all the K-9s?”

“Yes, yes...and not exactly.” The agent pulled out a last sheet: a blueprint for a laboratory. “Obviously, we haven’t heard back from the laboratory since the accident. While some of their data was online where we could access it, specific chemical formulas were kept in their local network. If you can fight your way to the laboratory, you can find their data and transmit it to us, so we can work on reversing the effects of K-9 and possibly develop a vaccine.”

Ken stared at the photographs, the lab reports, the blueprints laid out in front of him. _Just like the old days_ , he thought bitterly.

“Mr. Kenneth,” his visitor spoke one last time. “I realize you don’t feel strong support for your country, especially because it has not supported you in the past. But you are the only person, we feel, who can give us any kind of chance. If you are willing to help us, then we promise that you will be left alone to live your life.”

“A freak to hunt the freaks…”

Ken drummed his fingers on the photo of the white shepherd.  He didn’t know if he could trust this man any more than he trusted the rest of the self-righteous fools who pushed paper around in marble halls. He could just say “No,” and he’d have his old familiarity again. The same room, the same walls and door, the same slit for daylight, the same old mattress for his back…

“Get me off this God-forsaken island tonight, and I’m in.”


End file.
